


Liar

by Schediaphilia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Ambiguous Age, Child Abuse, Dave's POV, Gen, Implied mental illness, M/M, Neglect, POV Second Person, Sad, Sad Ending, Useless Adults, coping fic, emotional incest, implied neurodivergency, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schediaphilia/pseuds/Schediaphilia
Summary: You hate liars.





	Liar

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is very sad and likely very triggering. If you were raised by a narcissistic or otherwise covertly abusive guardian, please use extreme caution when reading. This fic is a big jumbled and everywhere due to it being a coping exercise for me, so try not to take it super seriously.

The first indication that your home life isn’t normal is the large smile and tired eyes of the woman who’s in the apartment you share with him. She tells you her name is Tammy, and she’s here to help both of you, and that she knows how hard it is to be a single parent at such a young age. She says you need to tell her the truth.

 

You don’t like the way she smiles, the way she smiles like she’s looking at something pitiable. You don’t like the way she leans over to shake your hand, and you especially don’t like when she asks if you’ll take off your glasses for her.

 

She wasn’t a nice lady. She said because you refused to let her take your glasses there was something wrong with you, that you should have tests done. That if your brother didn’t pay for the tests, maybe he wasn’t a fit guardian.

 

Her teeth were white, too white.

 

That was the first time you heard your brother cry, after you’d gone to bed when he thought you were asleep.

 

You hated Tammy.

 

You thought of teeth when you told her you were very happy here, that your brother next hurt you, that the apartment was clean, that you had three meals a day. It was true.

 

But then you grew older and Tammy stopped visiting.

 

You could tell from her smile she didn’t care, but you still couldn’t help the muted bitterness that washed through you as you pawed through the pantry for food.

 

By now you knew your family wasn’t normal. Everyone’s family has their peculiarities you suppose, and this was fine. When you brother came home, it was fine to hide in your room. On the not so rare occasion he couldn’t find something and cornered you, looked down on you, pinned you to the wall with one hand-- that was fine. It wasn’t normal, but it was better than fake smiles. That’s the one thing you can’t stand, fake-ass adults.

 

You can’t stand adults who tell you to trust them. You can’t stand people who say they care about you.

 

You hated Mr. Fullworth. You hated how he pulled you into his office, all eyes glistening with faux concern. You especially hated how he asked you to pull up the sleeves of your sweatshirt, asked you what those scars were. He promised not to call your brother.

 

When you got home Bro said he’d gotten a call from the school.

 

And last week you’d wandered into the school guidance counseling office, in a place you couldn’t describe. You’d never consider walking in if it weren’t for the fact just existing suddenly became agonizing. You hated when That happened. It was like existence itself had suddenly turned on your, squeezing every single atom in your body slowly and painfully, as if you were suddenly a virus and the universe itself was trying to exterminate you.

 

Maybe you are the virus. Maybe that’s why when you explained your heart hurts- it hurts so bad you can’t breathe, every part of your body aches and you feel like a hollowed out doll- maybe that’s why she called your brother. Maybe you’re the problem.

 

Being the lone wolf in a world of authoritarian monsters is a cliche and that shit just doesn’t happen in reality. If every adult around you keeps telling you it’s you, you’re the problem, you’re the _bad kid_ maybe it’s true.

 

There’s something wrong with you, mentally, that’s why adults hate you. Tammy had said it, Bro had ripped up the results in her face. He refuses to talk about it.

 

He’d changed at some point.

 

He hasn’t been home for a week. This would be more worrying if this weren’t a common occurrence. You had the routine down to memory. If you heard his keys in the door, you ran to your room played it cool. There was no real reason- he wasn’t a big bad scary monster or anything. You just didn’t want to see him as much as he evidently didn’t want to see you.

 

“This place is filthy,” he’ll mumble while in the kitchen but never do anything about it.

 

You walk into your room lazily, flicking off the kitchen light and plop in front of the monitor weakly illuminating your room in a blue light. You stare at your computer screen and scratch at your arms idly.

 

Next to your makeshift desk is a small lamp on the floor illuminating a glass of dish detergent. Somehow or other there were fleas in your room. You’d asked Bro last time he was home to do something about it. You couldn’t sleep, you were covered in marks. He slammed his fists on the counter and told you to go to your room. You scratch at your hands.

 

You’d read online that fleas are attracted to light and will drown in soap. You haven’t had any fall into the trap yet. Your skin’s crawling, but you’re not sure why. It’s cold, but that’s normal. The central heating in your building is out again. You had gotten your first summer job this year and used the money to buy a space heater. Somehow or other it became Bro’s. When you asked for it back he called you ungrateful and spoiled.

 

Somewhere in the back of your mind you didn’t think spoiled kids sit in freezing bedrooms covered in bite marks from fleas. But you try not to think about it too much. You pause only briefly when you hear the door to the apartment open, heavy footsteps passing the threshold.

 

For awhile you think it’s going to be a quiet night. He’ll pass out in his room with no fanfare. But then you hear what sounds at first like an animal’s quiet dying cry, but it repeats with no rhythm. Hesitantly, you venture out of your room, peeking into the living area of the apartment.

 

Bro is sitting on the futon with his head in heads and he’s… it’s hard to tell in the darkness, he didn’t throw on a light switch. Maybe the bulb was out like the one in your room. He was… shaking? You bit your lip, your heart beating faster. What if he was hurt? Or sick?

 

You stepped hesitantly out of your room fully, adjusting your t shirt self-consciously as you approached.

 

“What you doing sitting in the dark?”

 

When you got closer you smelled rot, rot and something acidic. The smell stung your nose.

 

He didn’t look up at you. He shook his head and took off his hat, tossing it onto the dirty carpet. You stare at where it landed, in the dim light remembered where Bro had ripped up the carpet in between bursts of yelling at him for spilling something and not telling him. You turn your head when you have fabric being patted, seeing Bro pat the section of the futon next to him.

 

The moment you sat down a large hand was forced into yours, gripping you so tight it hurt. You held back the gasp of surprise and pain and what you didn’t want to admit was a fair bit of fear. Bro didn’t say anything just wormed his arm around your own and grasped your hand, forcing you to face his side and lean into his body for support. You almost swore the glistening light that reflected on his cheeks were tears, but you hadn’t seen him cry in years.

 

“I don’t want to lose you.”

 

It was so quiet you thought you imagined it.

 

And then your heart was beating through your chest and you _couldn’t breathe_ because you were forced against his broad chest and you knew better than to try and squirm out of his grip. You settled on gasping had, struggling to get fresh air when pressed against fabric, when all you could smell was that deep acidic aroma.

 

“I love you so much,” his hands were in your hair, petting your hair like you had liked when you were a kid and you shook. You felt sick, and despite yourself you found yourself gritting your teeth and letting out a whimper as tears forced their way out. You didn’t know why you were crying but the way he was petting your head made it worse, and all you wanted to do was to get away from him.

 

This was a rare routine. Your skin crawled thinking of the past times this had happened, they way he’d pulled you into his laps and told you he loved you and held you close. You didn’t like these nights.

 

It was all tears, whimpering, and soft touches that made you want to peel off your skin. It always happened the same way. He’d apologize.

 

“I’m so-” your brother breathed in and you envied him from your position, struggling just to keep breathing, “sorry- I’ve been so busy-” he broke off to take off his glasses.

 

He’d offer to order you cupcakes from that place in town who delivers them all night. You’d accept because if you didn’t he’d order them anyway.

 

And then he’d watch you eat one or two, a broken look in his eyes and with a hopeful glint, a glint that said, “Maybe I’m a good parent now,” but two cupcakes at 4 AM didn’t fix it.

 

At least tonight’s cupcakes were interesting. The mountain dew with doritos cupcakes was actually kind of fucking delicious, not that you’d admit it. This ritual was always quiet, you sitting quietly, licking frosting off your fingers. The frosting was tangy and sweet and there wasn’t enough doritos to even factor into the flavor. It was just a citrus cupcake. Pretty good. Bro made no move for the next part of the routine, so you peeled off the wrapped of the red velvet cheesecake cupcake. Yup- as delicious as you expected. As you chew it down and lick the frosting from your lips you wished he could just do this later, sometime you could actually enjoy it. Your stomach still felt weak as you forced a big bite into your mouth. For some reason a tear ran down your cheek, but you didn’t feel sad right now. Just tired.

 

By the time you’d shoved the last chunk into your mouth, the words you’d dreaded the most were said.

 

“You wanna sleep with me tonight?”

 

You gulped, eyes wide, almost choking on your cupcake.

 

It didn’t matter what you said. If you said it was inappropriate, he’d mock you. He’d changed your diapers, it was the least you could do. You would be dead without him. You were spoilt rotten and you never gave him an ounce of thanks. And he _loves you_ don’t know how much he _loves_ you? Do you know how much you’re hurting him when all he asks from you is to sleep with him?

 

And as you reluctantly wandered into his room, and lied down and faced the wall as far away from the center as you could manage, you wondered if kids who loved their guardians slept next to them out of obligation. If every hug felt like you were being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste, your insides spilling to the floor. That’s what you felt like when he lied next to you and pulled you close and kissed your hair. An object. Maybe a teddy bear. You remember lying in bed next to him when you were younger, smiling, batting your eyelashes against his cheek and giggling. For some reason you felt betrayed as you remembered it, as you ignored his smell and presence as much as you could.

 

You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. What little sleep you’d have would be interrupted by the blanket being ripped away, you being forced off the bed and landing painfully on your hip while half asleep.

 

And as you laid there staring at the wall, bile in your throat you realized you don’t hate adults.

 

You hate liars.


End file.
